No-Brainer
by withered
Summary: Stiles has a number of reasons to keep living with his college roommate, though the one highest on his list is something he's likely never to repeat to his dad.


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No-Brainer

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At the crack of half-past eleven, Stiles untangles his way out from under the covers. Undecided about how he feels over Derek tucking him back in after he left for work this morning considering the energy Stiles just expended escaping.

He decides to magnanimously let it slide, hugging Derek's cool pillow against his chest in place of his roommate. Internally bemoaning the downsides that face him now that he's caught up on sleep and is alone for the day.

Absently, he sniffs the air and is disappointed at the lack of heavenly smell leaving the kitchen.

Holding onto the hope that Derek left breakfast for him anyway despite knowing that Stiles wouldn't be leaving the bed until mid-afternoon at the least, Stiles is horrified to find that _no, no he did not make breakfast for him,_ an oversight that causes Stiles' stomach to burst out in whale song.

A neon green sticky note on the microwave, however, saves Derek from Stiles' (admittedly undeserved) bitching: _Heat or 30s_ which meant only one thing – Derek bought Cinnabon for breakfast instead.

"Goddamn, I love a man," he sighs dreamily as the smell of cinnamon and sugar greet him, gently reminding him with Derek's bribery that living with his perpetually grumpy, French-toast-depriving roommate is hardly the worst thing.

And if anyone asks why Stiles choose to keep him after graduation, after spending a year annoying the hell out of each other in the university dorms when this was his chance to live an independent life – answering to no one and living life as he pleases – the reasons don't even include Cinnabon-level apologies.

Oh no, the actual grown-up reasons are these:

The first is that housing in New York is shit. Who wants to spend their whole paycheck on a glorified closet with shitty heating and abysmal water pressure? Spoiler alert! Not Stiles.

He also has a curly fry itch that needs to be scratched and without a roommate, the budget for that is less than satisfactory, _practically a luxury_ according to his spreadsheets, and Stiles refuses to be subjected to that.

The second reason is that New York is dangerous territory, the combination of cheap housing in a shitty neighborhood and Stiles' natural clumsiness do not bode well for his lifespan. Really, having to stand his college roommate's ass o'clock workouts is a compromise Stiles is willing to make in order to live to see thirty when all Derek needs to do is turn his Resting Murder Face up to eleven.

Plus, Derek makes him breakfast before he leaves for work, and Stiles will legitimately kill a man for Derek's French toast.

The third, which he'd never admit to his dad on their bi-weekly phone calls, is that besides Derek making breakfast and acting as their very own walking-scowling-growling security system, is that Derek can very easily fuck him against a wall.

And Stiles is very much on board with that.

Granted it had never been part of their initial roommate agreement.

At least, not in the beginning when Derek constantly looked like he wanted to pull through with his threat of ripping Stiles' throat with his teeth.

(It said a lot about Stiles that he didn't take him seriously. Derek looked like he knew ten different ways to kill a man _with his_ _thumb_ , and that was before he started tracing Stiles' rim with it.)

Mid-terms had been hellish the year of their graduation, and both of them were wound up so tight that not even picking a fight with one another elevated the itch under Stiles' skin.

The hate-sex worked though.

After that, they ended up in a tentative truce where they traded sexual favors for a non-hostile-living environment, and then it wasn't so much hate-sex as it was I'm-horny-and-stressed-out-do-you-mind?

It was an arrangement that worked for them.

Hell, Stiles even stopped growling at him in the mornings.

And not to toot his own horn, but he's pretty sure the Classic Literature class Derek TA-ed for that year has Stiles to thank for keeping Derek so mellow. Though, learning all the ways Derek could take his dick was its own reward.

That their arrangement wasn't even entirely all sex had been a surprise (that Derek had even thought to agree to "sex" and "Stiles" in the same sentence is a miracle), but Stiles supposed that after seeing each other through the death anniversaries of Stiles' mother and both of Derek's parents, and a number of panic attacks between them through the year, there was really no choice for either of them to be anything less than friends.

In any case, with his dad and Melissa finally getting their act together, and with a position at the NYPD forensics unit secured, staying in New York was a no-brainer.

That Derek intended to remain in the general vicinity thanks to his own post at the university, dragging him up and down the city looking for a feasible rental together seemed like a natural follow-up.

They were good friends and great roommates, why try to make it work with someone else, ja feel?

Derek snorted but hadn't put up even a cursory fight.

Not that he could actually complain, it wasn't like living with Stiles was a hardship.

He may be spastic, go on at least thirteen tangents in a single conversation, and disappear for hours at a time on Wikipedia spirals, but Stiles was a good roommate which was why he was at the bodega around the block from their apartment, even though it was supposed to be Derek's turn.

"Don't get white."

"There's nothing wrong with white," Stiles retorts.

"Would you get it for your dad?"

"Shut up, that's different."

Even over the phone, he can hear Derek's eyes roll. "Well, the whole-wheat is healthier."

"It also tastes like ass."

"You like ass just fine."

"That's different too, and you know it."

"Why, you like nuts just fine too."

He snorts, continuing to juggle the two loaves of bread in contemplation, iPhone jammed between his ear and his shoulder. "I can't even tell if it's the hunger making you like this, or if you've just finally accepted how dirty you are."

Derek sniffs in disdain. "I don't know what you're talking about, I'm a gentleman."

"Yeah, sticking your tongue in my ass is the definition of a gentleman," Stiles retorts, clearing his throat awkwardly when the lady next to him drops her loaf in shock.

"You're a menace, we're getting white," Stiles informs as he turns resolutely down the aisle, basket swinging dangerously. "Frankly, I don't know why you think you're getting a say, I'm the one getting the groceries." Though that certainly hadn't stopped Stiles from compromising with the zucchini pasta over the regular or grabbing the Greek yogurt Derek liked. See, he was a good roommate. Derek should be worshipping at his feet.

"You know I would've gotten it after work."

"There was no food, Derek, the Cinnabon you got could only sustain me for so long! I would've withered away, a sack of bones just hugging an empty container of Nutella. It'd be undignified."

"The constant butchering of Sonnet 44 makes me immune to indignity." Derek pauses. "Also, I've already seen you after a two-day Wikipedia binge. Finding you hugging an empty container while lying on our kitchen floor doesn't even scratch the surface of the indignity levels you can reach."

"You're the worst."

"Hey, who threw your smelly ass in the shower and got you to eat?"

"You."

"And who got you curly fries even though you didn't deserve them?"

"You," he sighs dramatically, making a face at Erica, before pointing at the phone still attached to his ear with his free hand, and rolling his eyes.

She snickers, starting to scan his items.

"And who made sure to check in on your dad, and lecture him about his red meat intake?"

"Alright, alright, I get it. You're perfect, I'm nothing without you," Stiles says dutifully, catching sight of the clock on the wall. "Hey, you eat yet?"

"Nope, have to get through this stack of tests first. I'll probably get something at two."

"Nah, don't bother, I'll bring it to you. Whatcha in the mood for?"

"I don't know," he admits, voice strained as the distinct sound of papers being shuffled reaches Stiles' hearing. Considering the state of Derek's desk at home, he's surprised Derek even knows where his pen is, just as Derek mutters to himself, "Where the hell did I put my pen?"

Stiles snickers. "How about that chicken pesto thing you like, I can snag some of that tea you've been trying to drown yourself in lately while I'm at it."

Over the line, Derek groans, and it really should say something about Stiles that he's so focused on mentally tracking the time and distance to get home, drop off the groceries, grab lunch and head to campus, that his dick doesn't do anything more than give an interested twitch. "If I weren't already planning to blow you, it'd be on the table right now." Erica definitely heard all of that from the way she's smirking and Stiles smirks back. "I love when your students annoy you."

"You two are disgustingly adorable," Erica says, not for the first time since he and Derek started frequenting the bodega. "Where can I get me one of those?"

Stiles can't help but preen. "What can I say? He hit the roommate jackpot."

Over the line, Derek snorts.

Erica snickers again. "I'm sure the fact that you're dating plays no small role in that."

And Stiles opens his mouth to object, except – "Derek, holy shit, are we dating?"

At that, Erica has a definitive look of judgment on her face, but Derek is suspiciously quiet, until, "Stiles, what did you think we were doing?"

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This fic is also available on ao3 under the same name


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